


You can go home again

by rivers_bend



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because apparently one fic where Harry's obsessed with Nick in wash-worn clothes is not enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can go home again

**Author's Note:**

> The Obvious: I do not know any of the people whose names and public personas feature in this story and neither believe nor mean to imply this actually happened.
> 
> The Less Obvious: I am not ACTUALLY going to write about Nick's shirts forever. Just, when no_detective prompted me, I got two plot bunnies. And kind of wrote them both.

Nick Grimshaw has a lot of clothes. A wardrobe and a chest of drawers in his bedroom, the wardrobe in the spare room, and a suitcase full of things he never wears but can’t bear to get rid of shoved under his bed. Harry has worn most of the shirts himself, peeled Nick out of all the jeans and most of the trousers at one point or another, and sometimes wonders if he knows Nick’s wardrobe better than his own. But Nick never told him about the box of clothes at his mum’s house. 

Harry’s helping Nick’s dad, Pete, get the Christmas decorations out of the loft when they’re up for a long weekend, and he gets a little over-enthusiastic handing down boxes. Pete hands the one marked “Lights/Garden” right back to him, but mutters, “Been meaning to make Nick take this,” when Harry gives him two boxes at once and only one has baubles in. 

“Make Nick take what?” Harry asks, but Pete ignores him and directs him yet again to find the box with the red flowers on the lid. Harry’s pretty sure this box is a figment of Pete’s imagination, but he dutifully looks for a seventh time and forgets about the box of Nick’s things until they’re going to bed that night and Harry trips over it, trying to kiss Nick and get his shirt off at the same time. 

“Woah there,” Nick says, catching Harry round the waist, pulling him even more off balance, but holding him close enough he can’t fall. He tries to go back to kissing Harry’s mouth, but Harry’s dying to know what’s in the box with Nick’s name sharpied on the lid in Nick’s familiar scrawl. 

“No, no,” Harry says, tugging out of Nick’s hold and dropping to his knees. 

“Bed?” Nick says, but Harry’s already burrowing his fingers under the tape. 

“What’s in the box?” he asks Nick.

Nick sighs his longest-suffering sigh, the one Harry thought for a while actually meant Nick was getting cross. Now he knows it means Nick is fully resigned to doing what Harry wants, but thinks he should put up a show of resistance. The tape gives to Harry’s tugging, and he rips it off. 

“Can’t remember. Probably nothing,” Nick says, as Harry lifts the flaps. 

On top is a hoodie, the pull-over kind, bright purple, with _Maui_ on it in yellow script, flanked by white and yellow flowers. “Oh my god,” Harry says, because, _wow_. It’s awful, and he cannot imagine Nick wearing it, ever. Even though Nick has some pretty horrible things hidden away. 

“Why the fuck’s she kept that?” Nick mutters, poking tentatively at the thing with one long finger. God, Harry loves Nick’s fingers. 

“Why’d you ever have it?” Harry asks. 

Nick lifts it out of the box and frowns at it before tossing it toward the bin in the corner. It knocks the bin over and lays there mocking them. “Mum’s friend brought it back from a trip for me when I was in school. Thank-you for watching her dogs. Would have rather had the twenty quid it probably cost her.” 

“Dogs, though,” Harry points out. He’s pretty sure Nick wasn’t watching them in the hopes of getting anything.

“Yeah, just had to put food out mornings, her daughter came over and walked them and stuff, but they were pretty cool.” 

Harry can’t tell what the thing under the hoodie is, so he pulls it out. It’s a polo like what they wear at Subway, the logo on the chest. “You worked at Subway?” Harry asks. He doesn’t expect it to make Nick flush. No shame working in a sandwich shop, even if your dream was to be a famous DJ. 

“Aah, no.” Nick takes the shirt and tosses it after the hoodie. “There was a boy. At uni. He and I— anyway. Don’t even know how that got in with my things.” 

The boy from uni might warrant further investigation if he makes Nick blush like that—Harry likes stories that make Nick blush—but now he wants to know about the box. Under the polo Harry finds a blanket clearly nicked from an airplane. He puts it aside, because there can never be enough blankets to snuggle under when they’re feeling too lazy to turn the heating up. Under that’s what looks like a stack of school shirts that get tossed toward the bin too, and Harry thinks that’s it, but there’s one more thing at the very bottom. 

It’s so soft and light that Harry thinks at first it’s a silk scarf or something, but it turns out to be an old blue long-sleeve tee, so worn and threadbare that he can practically count Nick’s eyelashes through the fabric. He can’t help the “Oooh,” that escapes. 

“Oooh?” Nick looks skeptical, but Harry still has fond memories of the night he got Nick in the shower with his clothes on and they went all see-through. This looks like it’d have the same effect, only without having to listen to Nick bitch about Harry trying to ruin his clothes. 

“This, we’re _definitely_ keeping,” Harry says, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger one last time before folding it onto the blanket and putting them both back in the box. 

“You aren’t the boss of me, Harold,” Nick says, but Harry knows he doesn’t have to be the boss to get Nick to give him anything he wants. Pretty much, he just needs to smile. Which doesn’t mean he doesn’t like to offer other incentives from time to time.

“Gonna blow you, now,” Harry says, unfolding from the floor and reaching for Nick’s hands. 

“Harry, my _parents_ ,” Nick hisses, but they’ve been asleep at least an hour, and last year he let Harry blow him in the kitchen less than twenty minutes after his parents went upstairs, so Harry isn’t buying his protests one little bit. 

Besides, Nick’s totally doing that thing where he can’t tear his gaze away from Harry’s mouth. 

“Please?” Harry says, licking his lips. 

Nick can’t get his jeans and pants off fast enough.

At home, Harry likes to spread Nick out and lie between his thighs, licking and sucking and stroking until Nick’s nearly begging Harry to just fucking finish him off, but the single bed here is better for sofa blowjobs—making Nick sit on the edge while Harry kneels between his feet, a hand on Nick’s quivering belly, Nick propped on his elbows watching his cock sliding between Harry’s lips. 

Harry likes how the lamp on the bedside table casts shadows on Nick’s face, makes his nipples stand out against the shirt Harry never quite managed to get off him, and he’d like to make Nick swap it for the shirt from the box. But he’s already shouldering between Nick’s knees, so he just pushes Nick’s shirt up his chest as he reaches for Nick’s dick with the other hand.  
   
After kneeling on the threadbare carpet to look at the stuff in the box, Harry’s knees are not interested in making this a long, lazy suck, so he breaks out his best tricks as soon as he’s got Nick in his mouth, making Nick gasp and swear and swat at his head in feeble protest that’s not really a protest at all. Harry’s pretty sure that sometimes just the fact of Harry’s eagerness is what turns Nick on the most—makes his cock jump and his hands curl into fists—and that makes Harry hum happily, knowing that Nick likes how much he likes this.

Humming is also one of Harry’s tricks, practically guaranteed to make Nick squeak. Quietly tonight—mindful they’re not alone, even with his dick in Harry’s mouth—but still a squeak that makes Harry hum again, slide his tongue along the head just how Nick likes, twisting his hand on the shaft, watching Nick through the fall of hair that’s escaped Nick’s grip.  
   
Even when Harry’s pulling out all the stops, Nick can usually make it last, but he also knows how fun aching knees aren’t so it’s only another few minutes until he’s hitching his hips and his breaths, tugging Harry’s hair in that way that means he’s about to come. Harry wonders what he’s thinking about—usually Nick will give him a running commentary when he’s thinking extra dirty to get there faster, but not where his mum might hear him—and maybe he’ll make him say, make him whisper it in Harry’s ear while he jerks Harry off.

Nick comes with a soft grunt, abs tense under Harry’s hand, thighs squeezing Harry’s shoulders, and Harry swallows, not letting so much as a dribble escape for Nick to chase with his thumb. 

While Harry gets his clothes off, Nick manages to get his orgasm-heavy limbs onto the bed in a way that leaves a sliver of space for Harry to join him. It isn’t much room, but since Harry intends to get his hard-on up against Nick as soon as possible, he’s not really worried about space. Nick doesn’t seem too worried about it either, wrapping his arms around Harry’s back and hooking a leg over Harry’s thigh so Harry’s dick is trapped between their bellies, sticking on the soft cotton of Nick’s shirt.  
   
“You really fucking love sucking cock, don’t you?” Nick murmurs against Harry’s jaw, and Harry twists his hips in answer, pressing his dick against the soft swell below nick’s bellybutton. “Need my hand?” 

“Tell me what you were thinking about,” Harry whispers back. He loves Nick’s belly, loves rubbing off on it slow and lazy, messy with lube, or slick with soap in the shower, but he’s into the friction from Nick’s shirt, and can get off with just his palm to push against if Nick wants to talk him off over the phone, make him come in his pants, so he’s pretty sure he won’t have any trouble getting there just like this.  
   
“When?” Nick asks, hand coming down to cup Harry’s arse, run his fingers teasingly behind Harry’s balls.  
   
“When I was sucking you,” Harry answers, even though Nick totally knows when.  
   
“Was thinking about your mouth.”  
   
Harry nips at Nick’s earlobe, makes a sound of protest. He’s horny and Nick’s teasing and it’s not fair. “What _else_ ,” he says when Nick just hums in amusement at him.  
   
“Was just—” Nick lets a finger drag over Harry’s hole, then strokes back down to his balls. “Thinking about you under the desk at work, no one knows you’re there, you’ve got my dick out, think we have enough time while the song plays, but it’s over, and I’ve got to do a link, and you don’t stop, keep— with your fucking mouth, just sucking me, touching, with your hands moving, and I’ve got to talk, got to say something, and you don’t even, not even when Finchy asks me what’s wrong, you just keep going.” 

And fuck. Harry’s. God. Harry’s thought about that more than once. More than a dozen times, nights in the corner of the studio while Nick did his show, and Harry was being good, keeping quiet, keeping to the bargain they made that he could be there if he didn’t do anything too distracting, and Nick would smile at him, that wide, happy smile of just enjoying Harry’s company, and Harry was thinking about crawling over, pushing between his knees and just getting filthy. And he always—fuck Nick’s still talking, about how hot Harry’s mouth is, how good it feels—and Harry always thought he was the only one with a dirty mind while Nick was working, but Nick must have been thinking it too. 

“Niiiick,” Harry whines when Nick stops talking, too caught up in his grinding and the sound of Nick’s voice to remember that whining is not the best way to get what he wants, but Nick’s caught up too, because he goes back to his story about Harry driving him wild. And Harry’s close, he’s so fucking, unnngh, hips just twitching now, rutting up against Nick’s belly in the confines of Nick’s hold.   
   
Between Nick’s voice in his ear, Nick’s fingers teasing his crack, and the friction on his cock, Harry only remembers at the last second to bury in the curve of Nick’s neck the noise he makes when he comes. Nick still shushes him, but Harry wouldn’t be surprised if it was just an excuse for Nick to pet his hair.  
   
“So that’s good for you, too?” Nick says, when Harry shifts to get more comfortable. Then, “Ugh, my whole shirt is the wet spot.”  
   
“Totally good for me,” Harry agrees. “And you love the wet spot.” Nick _hates_ the wet spot, and Harry thinks it’s hilarious.  
   
“Need a new shirt, now,” Nick grumbles. Harry would like to argue that Nick is more than welcome to sleep without one, but they’ve had this conversation, and Nick’s shoulders always get cold while he’s sleeping, even with Harry being a furnace half on top of him.  
   
“Ooh,” Harry says, remembering. “I’ll get you that shirt from the loft.”  
   
Nick isn’t really paying attention, working to get his wet shirt off in the small space without letting it touch his hair, because he’s ridiculous. “You’re ridiculous,” Harry says, grabbing Nick’s arm so he can lean out far enough to snag the threadbare shirt from the box.  
   
“Not,” Nick says, trying to tug his arm back, because he needs it to get undressed. Harry’s got a good grip though, and he’s almost— there. He hooks the shirt between two fingers and hauls himself back onto the bed.  
   
“Are.” He releases Nick, props himself on one elbow to watch him finish extricating himself from his clothes, then swaps him the dirty shirt for the one from the loft, swabs at his junk with the dirty one, and drops it on the floor.   
   
“Filthy boy,” Nick says, smile trying to break free from his stern look. When it starts succeeding, he pulls the new shirt over his head to hide it.   
   
“You love it,” Harry says, because Nick does.   
   
“Sleeping time,” Nick says. The shirt looks as good on him as Harry’d hoped, clinging in really great ways, and super soft to touch. He wants to rub off on it, but he’s pretty sure a repeat performance isn’t in the cards right now. Maybe in the morning.   
   
“Fine,” he agrees, settling against Nick’s chest, insinuating one leg between Nick’s thighs. “But you still love it.”   
   
Nick kisses him on the mouth in what might be a shut-up gesture except for how he lingers, how his fingers stroke over Harry’s spine. Harry kisses back, slow and lazy, following Nick’s lead, and doesn’t protest when Nick finally pulls away, tucking Harry’s head under his chin and reaching to turn off the lamp.  
   
“I do,” Nick says in the dark, so low Harry almost misses it.  
   
Harry lets a hand skate along Nick’s shirt down his side to settle on his hip, and his eyes drift shut.  “Me too,” he whispers into the hollow between Nick’s collar bones. “Me too.”


End file.
